carpe noctem
by could-have-beens
Summary: "You're Han Solo?" "I used to be." / Han Solo was dead long before that day on Starkiller Base. From a certain point of view.


_This is how Han Solo dies:_

A lightsaber through his chest, flickering red light illuminating a pale face and blank eyes.

(Once, Ben's eyes had a fire of their own, bright and dazzling, until it set him ablaze — )

He hears the distant echoes of screams and the sounds of battle raging on, but all he sees are those eyes. He could read them once, as well as he used to read Leia's, and it's this immovable emptiness that makes his blood run cold, more than the inevitable end awaiting him.

He has had many a near death experience, certainly not like this, but he has looked and spat at Death's face more times than he can count, and _this_ , this turn of events, is not at all what he expected.

Death is more painful than he ever thought possible. It's a raw, aching thing, the pain burning his throat so that he can't find the voice to speak. He doesn't know if it's because of the lightsaber or because of the hand around the hilt.

But Han has never been a poetic man. If he weren't, you know, dying, he'll admit that his last thoughts aren't exactly profound, the way he's certain Luke's would be when he bites the dust. But —

He's not afraid. Not even a little.

He just wishes he told Leia, one last time, even if she knows already. That Luke could have been here, because if anyone can bring someone back from the shadows, it'll be him. That Chewie didn't have to see this, because his oldest friend certainly doesn't deserve to live with the guilt of it all. And that —

Han touches his son's face. He can't help but hope, maybe, somehow —

His body falls off the catwalk, into the depths and out of sight.

( — and Han wonders if there's anything left of him to burn.)

* * *

 _But that isn't quite right —_

Han Solo dies the day Ben Solo dies.

He's on the other side of the galaxy when it happens, and he doesn't feel it in his gut, doesn't feel the Force trill around him in agony, like Leia and Luke do.

But he might as well have been there, with the way the news had struck him. The thought of it, of his son — _Ben no what have you done come back_ — was a blow unlike any he's ever had the misfortune of receiving, so staggering that his knees had wobbled and his feet had moved of their own accord, leading him to the Falcon and then to the dark, harsh coldness of space.

Those first few days — every day since, if he's being honest — had been spent wondering, thinking, knowing that it was his fault. That he should have done more. That he should have been there.

Some father he was.

(But then Han Solo was never meant for titles like that, was he?)

He can see in his mind's eye the Temple burning, corpses blazing in the shadows, bright and glaring under the canopy of rain.

He imagines Ben standing over it all, the fire dancing in his eyes, and he wonders if his son laughed or cried or screamed or if he even cared at all.

* * *

("Go back to your wife, Han," Maz tells him for the umpteenth time.

Like always, Han pretends he doesn't hear her.)

* * *

 _Or, maybe —_

"You're getting hitched! Never thought you had it in you, Solo!" Lando crows, then pauses for a brief, gone-all-too-soon moment. He grins. "Though you're not gonna be Solo much longer, are you?"

Han rolls his eyes, but clinks their glasses together and downs his drink in one gulp.

Beside them, Luke is snickering.

* * *

("You got Luke _drunk_?"

"Well, Princess, it wasn't like I planned it. Being a Jedi and all, you'd think he could handle a few shots."

"I handled my shots just fine!"

"Sure you did, kid.")

* * *

 _No, Han Solo was dead long before that —_

He died on a bridge on Endor, when his steps hesitate and lead him back to Leia, when he pulls her close even as he thinks that he needs to step aside, because it's Luke she loves and Han loves them both enough to let her go.

(He's completely wrong about everything as usual — but, hey, it's the thought that counts, right?)

* * *

("You know, I thought you and the Princess. . . ."

"I was jealous too, if that helps."

"Surprisingly enough, no. It doesn't."

"Do you need me to give you the hurt-her-and-I'll-hurt-you speech?"

"Kid, you don't scare me. I'm pretty sure your sister would get to me first."

"See? It wasn't so hard to say, was it?"

"Just kind of disturbing, considering. . . .")

* * *

 _Or, perhaps, earlier —_

"I love you."

"I know."

* * *

(The realization that he's in love with one Leia Organa, antagonistic Princess and more-than-occasionally infuriating leader of a possibly-bound-to-fail-but-maybe-just-maybe Rebellion, is not a confounding epiphany that leaves him breathless or dizzy or horribly out of sorts.

It's not like in the holovids — which, okay, aren't really reliable standards for normal, everyday life experiences, but Han Solo isn't one for falling in love so, really, what else was he supposed to base his feelings on? Luke's wide-eyed, fumbling crush?

But the point is — falling in love isn't like the stories, where the hero's sudden realization is such a heart-stopping, edge-of-your-seat moment. There are no fireworks or birds chirping or whatever cheesy thing it is they say is supposed to happen.

It's a quiet thing that sort of just creeps up on him, nagging him at the back of his mind every time he sees her laugh or smile, every time their fingers brush against each other, every time he notices, underneath all their spats and sneers, her eyes shining at him in a way he's never seen her look at anyone before. It creeps up on him the same way his fondness for Luke crept up on him, just as his unwavering loyalty to Chewie did all those years ago.

When the words flash in his mind for the first time — _I love her_ — he's surprised by how unsurprised he is. It happens during one of their rows, when he makes yet another flippant comment about leaving to pay his debts and she makes yet another ineffective Rebel Alliance sales pitch. There's nothing particularly special about this quarrel, nothing life-changing. It simply was.

But as he watches her storm off, probably going to Luke to cool down or retreat back into her work like she's wont, he thinks of how easy it would be to avoid all these arguments if she just says _I want you to stay_.

No _the Alliance needs you_. No _the cause benefits greatly from your skill_ s. No _Luke wants you here_.

Just simply _I want you to stay._

It's not a new thought, but for some reason it's only at this moment that he makes the connection.

He takes the words, stares at them like he would an interesting piece of machinery, and stores them away with the rest of the moments he's spent with her, little instances he has hoarded in his mind for reasons that are now suddenly so much clearer.

If nothing else, it certainly explains why that nagging voice has always sounded familiar.)

* * *

( _You're friend is quite a mercenary._ )

He doesn't falter when he lifts his ship up and blasts away from the hangar. Away from ignorant farmboys and ungrateful princesses and naive idealists on a fool's crusade.

He is, after all, seventeen thousand credits richer, and isn't that what he came here for in the first place?

( _I wonder if he really cares about anything._ )

Beside him, Chewie moans dolefully.

"What?" Han snaps. "You wanna get us both killed or something?"

Chewie only growls at him, in that irksome disapproving way of his that makes Han regress back to his ten year old self.

"Yeah — well. No good gettin' ourselves involved. Just because you liked the kid doesn't mean the bounty on our —"

Chewie growls some more.

"Fine, _my_ head. The bounty on my head ain't gonna disappear just because you wanna start saving the galaxy, Chewie."

Chewie doesn't say anything else, but Han can feel his displeasure rolling off of him in waves.

As if that's gonna change anything. Han has done a lot of things Chewie didn't approve of over the years. It didn't stop him then and it certainly won't stop him now.

Except —

This doesn't explain the odd stirring in his gut, the one that makes his fingers hesitate at the controls as it quietly whispers turn back, slowly and repeatedly until his throat turns dry. It's kind of giving him the creeps.

Oh kriff. Why did his long lost conscience decide to pop out today of all days?

Chewie is staring at him quizzically now and Han doesn't want to turn around and face the smug look he just knows will be there any second.

"Damn it," he grumbles under his breath.

Almost against his better judgment, he lets that annoying, pesky little whisper lift his callused hand from the hyperspace lever and then —

"You're all clear, kid. Now let's blow this joint and go home!"

( _Or anybody._ )

* * *

("Look, I don't do partners, okay? You can stop going on about that life debt of yours, you've already saved my rear. We're even. Just use the credits I gave you and go back to Kashyyyk."

Chewbacca glares at him, affronted. He makes a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl. A good man would have done the polite thing and kept their exasperated sighs to himself, but — well.

Han — disgraced Imperial Lieutenant, formerly the most promising pilot of the Academy — isn't a good man, so he heaves another deep, frustrated sigh.

"I mean it. I don't want you following me around, all right? You've caused me enough trouble already."

No longer immaculately groomed, he grimaces at his once white shirt and his stained military trousers. All those years spent turning over a new leaf, all that hard work — gone in an instant. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but he's been banking on the later part, hoping that his inevitable fall from grace would at least come with a pension and not a blacklist.

He really needs another drink. . . .

Chewbacca growls low in his throat, but it sounds strangely concerned when Han's unsteady hand reaches out for another tankard of ale.

"I don't need a babysitter, thanks," Han glowers. "I can look after myself. Always have."

The Wookie snorts disdainfully at that, eyeing him doubtfully, and Han's scowl deepens.

But Chewbacca doesn't leave. Not on that day, or the next, or the one after that.

It takes Han maybe a few weeks — all right, maybe sooner — to admit that he's actually okay with that, with this unlikely growing partnership they have. To his credit, Chewie doesn't say _I told you_ _so_ when Han mumbles that okay, maybe you can stay, but only because he can use having a co-pilot around, not because he likes his company or anything like that.

Space can be an awfully boring and lonely place, he realizes, especially if there's no one to share it with.)

* * *

 _But, maybe, this is how it starts —_

He's young, with thin limbs and dirty clothes and a charming smile.

A child, that's what he should be called.

(And it is what he's called, by those foolish and softhearted enough to be fooled by wobbling lips and earnest sounding pleas.)

Except children don't have eyes like his, too old and haunted for a face too thin and gaunt.

He's not prone to make-believe, but somehow he finds himself looking up at the dark Corellian sky, filled with those twinkling things called stars blinking down at him, and thinks —

 _One day. . ._

He's unused to daydreaming, but still he dreams of ships and flying and freedom.

He'll leave eventually. He'll fly off of this planet and never turn back. He'll see all the worlds out there, from the Outer Rim to the Core and everything in between.

What would the stars look like up there? What would it feel like, to walk among them, to see them up close?

Han wonders.

 _One day. . . ._


End file.
